


The War of the Soul

by Scholastically Natalie (greenwings33)



Series: Orchard Wars [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Everyone Is Gay, Kuma is my favorite, M/M, Magic, Orchard Wars, Red Strings, Red Strings of Fate, Soul Item, Soul Powers, Soulmate AU, Soulmates, Soulmates AU, Strings of Fate, bear with me, magical powers, soul strings, soulmate
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:40:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25910707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenwings33/pseuds/Scholastically%20Natalie
Summary: The Orchard Wars verse focuses on England (Arthur) and 2p America (Allen) as they try to survive a war between 1p and 2p countries.In a world where country personifications wield magic powers in tumultuous times, can love be found across enemy lines? Or will self-proclaimed King of the World, Alfred, be putting a stop to any potential rivals for Arthur's heart?Summary from @ask-the-awesome on Tumblr!
Relationships: 2p America/1p England, America/England, France (Hetalia)/Jeanne d'Arc | Joan of Arc, past France (Hetalia)/Joan of Arc
Series: Orchard Wars [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1880446
Kudos: 12





	1. Matthew (and Kuma)

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome, dear readers! This fanfiction is a collaboration between allen-arthur (a 1pEnglandx2pArthur ask blog on Tumblr) and me, Scholastically Natalie. Feel free to check out her comics on Tumblr that I am writing this for. You can find me on Tumblr under hoardofadicedragon and on YouTube as Scholastically Natalie for sneak peaks on the writing!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> France needs allies. Who better than family?

“ _Bonjour, mon fils!_ I have come to request your aid with a matter I hold dear to my heart,” Francis stated, sweeping into a low bow in front of Matthew. The younger country maintained a blank face, though a smile tugged at his upper lip. He had clearly just arrived home, his tan winter coat on a hook by the door. If Francis wasn’t wrong, that hook was one that Arthur had carved from the shed antler of a local elk. That had been a birthday Francis had missed, one spent with Jeanne. So many memories he had missed out on, ones that he regretted, ones that he cherished.

“What do you need, Father?” Matthew asked in his quiet voice, pushing his brown rimmed, square glasses further up his face. He still wore the brown slacks that were his unofficial uniform for government affairs, a tan sweater covering the plain white button down. His belt was missing, and his shirt untucked. He had interrupted his son in the middle of changing.

“Don’t let me keep you - finish getting changed, Mattou. I’ll keep company with Kuma,” Francis smiled. His urgency swirled under his skin, but he knew that coming on too strong would only turn Mattou away from him. He turned towards the living room at the end of the hallway, his arctic boots scraping across the sunken, slate covered floor. Matthew watched him for a few more breaths, seemingly frozen in his position halfway down the wooden staircase.

“Take your shoes off. I don’t need the floors more scuffed than they already are. Kuma does enough damage on his own,” Mattou replied, a smirk lifting his pale lips and bringing a mischievous tint to his pale, lavender gaze. The younger turned, springing back up the steps in a way that made Francis wince, thinking of his injured knee. If he were to climb those stairs now, as he had in the past, he would need to hold the railing, cleverly carved from the shed antlers of the reindeer and elf that so loved Matthew. Francis chuckled in return as he bent to untie his laces.

Leaving his boots behind on the stone, Francis made his way down the hallway, the natural lighting from the large bay window, bringing the caramel tones of the wood to the forefront. His plush socks threatened to slip on the finely waxed surface, but Francis soldiered on and entered the grand living room. At first, Francis had been dubious about Mattou, when he proclaimed that he was going to build himself a log cabin in the wilderness of Canada. He had, of course, forgotten about Matt, Mattou’s other self. Matticka had set out to build a perfect blend of their lives, probably motivated by his love for Kumajiro, and his counterpart. Because of the other lumberjack’s expertise in the craft, the cabin turned out to be more of a mansion than the humble abode that Francis had pictured. The living room he stood in was a sweeping room with a vaulted ceiling, one wall taken by a massive fireplace that made Francis a little concerned about what Matticka was burning in it.

A white bundle rolled into his legs, forcing him to fall back into the plush, leather couch behind him. The squeak of leather heralded his doom as the teenage polar bear dropped himself into Francis’ lap. Francis’ voice rose to match that of the leather as he let out a squeak of his own. A 234-pound polar bear was no longer a lap-sized polar bear, no matter how much Kuma didn’t believe it.

“Kuma, I can’t breathe,” Francis wheezed, his breath tickling the bear’s ear. It twitched and the bear released a deep grunt before rolling over, Francis quickly starting to become swallowed by the cushions around him. The leather was unforgiving, pressing in from all sides, constricting him, while he was suffocated by his lap’s current occupant. He tentatively patted the bear’s side, pushing at him, “Kuma… _mon petite, por favour._ ”

He was soundly ignored. The adolescent released a puff of air, as if exasperated, and relaxed further, going completely limp. Francis was sure this was where he was going to die: suffocated by his son’s pet. He stopped resisting, accepting his fate, driven deeper into the couch that was to be his tomb. Would Matthew even find his body? The couch was plush enough to hide it for months.

Matthew hummed quietly to himself as he finished unbuttoning his shirt, throwing the rumpled garment into the wicker hamper by the door. The arrival of his father was unexpected, interrupting his time to decompress from the government meetings that had taken up his entire day. He had barely escaped from the bureaucracy to grab a quick lunch from a nearby Tim Hornton’s and dive back into the storm. The election was coming up in a few months, and all the candidates were vying for his endorsement and sponsorship. He had no patience for the grandstanding and bootlicking that took place the few months before the election. The candidates for prime minister were always desperate for approval, terrified of losing to their opponent.

Thankfully, he had made time to meet all of the candidates today, and then could deal with a confident prime minister once they won, rather than the anxious shells that they were going to be for the next few months. Matthew sighed to himself as he pulled out a well-worn hoodie. It wasn’t in his usual Canada Red™ , but the flannel that James favored. It was made up of darker colors, burgundy, grey, and black, while being a size or two larger than Matthew usually liked. Today, he needed something to remind him about the people who cared for him as Matthew rather than Canada. James’ sweatshirt was exactly what he needed.

He exhaled as he finished the comfort with soft, worn in jeans that had small rips and tears starting on the seams over his thighs. They were ultimately destined for the trash, but they were the perfect pants for a mellow evening. He could feel his stress leaving his body as he rolled up his thick-knit socks, the chunky and crooked weave was enough to showcase their handmade quality, knitted for him by Arthur when the other country was first learning to knit.

He sat for a moment on his king-size bed. The mattress was just a hair too soft, an indulgence for his alter that he didn’t regret. He wanted to know what his father was doing here after an almost eternity of tense messages and strained meetings. Francis would never show up just for a friendly visit - not after what happened last time. His father may appear to be foolish and ignorant, but he often had an underlying motivation for all of his actions. Matthew had learned his approach to politics from him, after all.

Francis took a breath, or at least attempted to. All his other tries had ended in failure, as Kuma’s bulk left no room for his lungs to inflate. He was pretty sure his son’s pet was trying to kill him. This time, however, he could gulp in one quick breath, and air had never tasted so sweet. He tried again: “Kuma! Kuma, _por favour_ , let your _papy_ breathe.”

The bear ignored him. It seemed to be a little smaller than the last time he had prodded at it, the ear only taking up half of his sight, rather than three quarters. Perhaps the bear was starting to feel merciful? Then Kuma shifted, and all thoughts of the bear’s potential mercy left his mind.

“Kuma? Kuma? Please don’t step on that,” Francis begged, one bowl-sized paw treading on the edge of his thigh, claws threateningly close to the zipper of his black Versace jeans. His voice was muffled, a living acoustic panel blocking all of the soundwaves. His mouth was right next to the bear’s ear, so he could only pray that the _le baisser_ took pity on him. He didn’t hold much hope.

Much to Francis’ relief, the weight encumbering him started to lessen at a rapid pace, the polar bear shrinking with every breath he took, until Kuma was the size of a large cat, still sitting regally on his lap, paws now the width of a teacup. Thankfully, Matthew was in a better mood: perhaps negotiations could proceed smoothly.

“Kuma!” Matthew called as he entered the room, the polar bear perking up immediately when it’s friend entered the room. He leapt from the couch straight into Matthew’s arms, taking up his customary position: Matthews arms crossed under his front legs, his back legs dangling, as Kuma peered out from his protector’s embrace. Matthew seemed worried, a faint acrid scent still lingering about him, one that was usually gone by the time he changed, so Kuma laved his tongue over the bare skin of Matthew’s wrists that peeked out from his coverings. His human didn’t need to be stressed or upset.

Matthew smiled down at Kuma: “You’ve been good, haven’t you? Father doesn’t even look like he’s been mauled.” Kuma patiently waited through the chatter until he got what he really wanted: Matthew sat down. Kuma could curl up in his lap and get petted throughout the entire conversation. He wasn’t often banned from the government building, but with so many new people, they didn’t want to scare them off when Matthew got tired. Now, Matthew had to make up their lost time to Kuma in the form of petting and treats.

Francis started to open his mouth to refute the claim, but just as quickly closed it. Accusing Matthew’s pseudo-son of attempted murder would not endear him to his estranged son. No matter how much his back hurt.

“What did you need, Father?” Matthew asked, placing a hand on a white, fluffy head and fidgeting with the circular ear.

“I can’t just want to visit? How my heart weeps at your doubt,” Francis sighed, placing a hand on his forehead as if stricken. Matthew fixed him with a deadpan stare, unwilling to put up with Francis’ usual dramatics. He knew his father was here with a goal, and he wouldn’t be lulled into a false sense of security.

“I know you want something, you wouldn’t be visiting otherwise. Normally you just send messages. This has to be about something big,” Matthew sighed, running a hand through is already messy blonde hair. Francis had the grace to look embarrassed, but he sat up and looked Matthew in the eyes, something that the country rarely did.

“Matthew,” he started, shocking Canada into mirroring his posture; “I have come to ask you to be at my side.”

“Father…”

“I know what you’ve told me before - that I should let it go. That I should be grateful for the time I had with her.”

“I know it wasn’t what you -”

“He took her from me! I felt the string snap and that pain still hasn’t left me. It torments me every. Waking. Moment. How could I let that go? How can I move on from that pain?” Francis’ chest heaved as he gasped for breath after his impassioned speech. Matthew knew that if France was any less controlled, he would cry. Francis, despite his facade of idiocy, only portrayed what he wanted others to see. This was the first time that Matthew was getting a glimpse of the man himself.

“Father, you can’t drive us to war for the sake of revenge!” Matthew cried, body tensing as he prepared to argue. Kuma squirmed and nipped at his hands, sharp teeth not yet drawing blood, as Matthew came close to squishing his dearest friend. It took a few seconds but eventually he relaxed, making eye contact with soulful brown eyes.

“It’s not for revenge,” France replied. “I will admit, it is a factor. But I am more concerned for Oliver’s ability to harm my Jeanne, to harm me, when the alters are not in control. They are the worst of us and clearly do not draw the line at harming soulmates as we have in the past. They have no morals. They are a threat to all of us.”

“It seems like your issue is only with Oliver. None of the other alters have shown to be too violent towards us or mortals. If they aren’t harming us, why should we be concerned?” Matthew asked, pulling Kuma closer to his chest. “Seconds are just that - Seconds. We are in control more often, more powerful, and are defined by our morals. The Seconds have been left behind and forgotten by everyone except us. Who wouldn’t stew in resentment and anger towards those who are better than you in every way?” Francis growled, his fists clenching. “If we don’t want to be replaced, we must lock them away where they can never escape.”

“I can’t support getting rid of all of the seconds - they’re important parts of ourselves and our people. You’re suggesting that we get rid of entire parts of our populations,” Matthew snorted. He shook his head, petting Kuma’s fur to soothe himself. He couldn’t believe his father would suggest this. Had he been driven to madness by the pain of his broken soulbond?

“Matthew, I need your support in this. I’ve been in contact with the other countries, but I wanted to talk to my family first,” France said. “You are the least involved in this matter, and I know that I can rely on you to do the right thing.”

“Father…” the rest of Matthew’s sentence was cut off as a familiar figure appeared in the doorway. He was tall, an inch or so taller than Matthew, with long, shoulder length blonde hair, now made a dark brown from water. It dripped onto his shoulders, dampening the plain white T-shirt that fit like a second skin, the muscles of his torso and arms bulging against the material. James had come back early from patrolling and keeping the forest around them healthy. James would wander the paths, trimming plants that needed to be trimmed, and chopping down trees that constricted the growth of other trees. And if he happened to encounter any poachers? Their fireplace would have a cheery glow by the time Matthew had finished playing with Kuma. The opposing image his alter presented was somewhat ruined by the delicate green tray in his hands, teapot and fine porcelain cups on fine porcelain saucers all tinkling merrily.

“Mattie, I heard about the government today. I figured you’d need a bit of relaxing,” James began, gaze locked on Matthew as he started to enter, Francis a little out of sight from the doorway, direct sight blocked by the doorframe and the rough-hewn bookcase next to the couch. Once James moved further in, he spotted Francis. Matthew could almost see his hackles rising as his dark violet eyes made contact with Francis’ deep blue gaze: “What is he doing here?”

“James, thank you. You are too kind,” Matthew smiled, standing and moving his counterpart. He placed a calming hand on the other’s shoulder. “I’ll join you for a cup of tea in a moment, if you’d be willing to wait for me. I just have to say my goodbyes to Father.”

James sent a softer glare in Matthew’s direction, Francis’ eyebrows drawing together at the sight. They matched gazes, speaking without words, before James nodded, and turned to exit, Kuma happily bounding along beside him. The two were left alone once more.

“Mattou… Please don’t deny me,” Francis begged, moving up to Matthew. He placed a hand on the county’s left cheek, caressing the soft skin and smiling gently. “I need you.”

“Father… I can’t support anything that harms James. He has been there for me through everything. However, I won’t fight against you either. As long as you keep us out of it,” Matthew said, offering a sad smile. Francis sighed, releasing his son, head drooping at his failure.

“I can not force you to help me, _mon fils_ , but I can’t help you once this starts,” Francis warned, heading into the hall.

“Then don’t start it at all!” Matthew burst out, leaning heavily against the wall of his entryway. “Just don’t start.”

“Oh, Mattou. It’s already begun. Oliver killed my Jeanne. The alters have gotten too strong. I am not the only country concerned by their potential, their malice,” Francis warned, jerkily pulling on his coat. He toed into his boots and bent to tie the laces. Matthew patiently waited for his father to stand upright, politely opening the heavy, wooden door for him.

“It was good to see you again, Papa. I hope you can find peace.”

“Watch your back, Mattou. The world is about to become a very dangerous place.”

He wound his way back to the kitchen, where he found James, now with his hair in a messy, damp bun and wrapped in a flannel overshirt, a mug of tea steaming where it was cradled in his hands. The tea service he had received from his Mother was arranged perfectly on their kitchen table. Matthew grinned and sat across from his other self, picking up his own hot teacup. “So, my dear, what tea did you pick this afternoon?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, all! Thank you so much for reading this. I hope you enjoyed it. Hit me up to scream about writing and this fic on hoardofadicedragon on Tumblr or Scholastically Natalie on YouTube. PLEASE go see the awesome comic creator allen-arthur on Tumblr!


	2. Lukas, Antonio, and Tao (Have to Break a Few Eggs to Make an Omelette)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> France needs allies. If his son won't help him, then who will?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Sorry for the later than planned update. I have included omakes at the end, mostly because I think I'm funny. Please let me know if you laughed. 
> 
> Also, I have named Spain's bull Tao, adopted from the Spanish word for bull because that is exactly how I name.

“You called me here, France. What do you want?” Lukas demanded. Francis smiled at the smaller country across from him, idly stirring cream and sugar into his coffee. The gentle clinking of the spoon against the glass filled the space. The two countries sat in a white living room, the exposed wood beams of the ceiling providing warmth to the small room. Pristine white couches, overstuffed and decorated with lacy, gold throw pillows cradled their forms. On the light, wooden coffee table in front of them was a carafe full of the finest coffee money could buy, the pearl-inlaid surface carved in whirls that swooped over and around the surface, the metal lid a burnished gold, just like the bottom that sat on the warmer. It matched the smaller, gold pots that contained the cream and the sugar cubes. Both countries had a slim, glass cup with a small, circular handle just big enough for two fingers at the stem. In Francis’ cup was a caramel colored liquid, and Lukas’ held a deep black.

The fireplace against the other wall crackled merrily, the white mantle supporting a circular, gold mirror that must have been salvaged from centuries ago. Perhaps France had even bought it when it was first made in his country. The man had certainly spent time perfecting this cottage on the outskirts of Paris, it wasn’t a stretch of the imagination to picture him collecting bits and bobs over the years for his perfect home. 

“Lukas, you are always so suspicious of me,” Francis whined, taking a sip of his coffee. He grimaced and dropped in another sugar cube, starting the familiar metallic melody again. “I have only ever been kind to you.” 

Lukas’ face stayed blank, dull blue eyes boring into France’s. The older country resisted the urge to fidget under the unrelenting stare. This was why he hated one on one meetings with Norway. If he looked away first, he was weak, but he wasn’t sure if he could hold up under  Lukas’ intense gaze.

He looked away. Francis had requested this meeting, and had called Lukas here. He could afford to look weak - maybe Lukas would be inclined to help him if Francis presented a weaker side.

“I need your help,” Francis allowed, peering into his distorted reflection, the scar across his neck peeking up from the periwinkle bandana’s knot. His face was soon distorted as France dropped in another sugar cube. He looked up, meeting the flat blue eyes that revealed nothing. 

“That’s a first,” Lukas murmured, flashing a brief smile. The teeth revealed were jagged, matching more to the legends of Jotnar, the frost giants that devoured those foolish enough to wander into their path. Francis took a sip of his coffee, hiding a grimace at the pale liquid as it hit his tongue - too much sugar. 

“We are under threat,” France began, taking another tentative mouthful of the sugary drink. The clunk of glass meeting wood was the only sound to be heard in the room. “Our alternates have become too powerful, too resentful.”

“Have they?” Norway asked, pale fingers wrapping around the thin handle of the cup. His head tilted as he considered what France was saying, peering into the dark depths of his coffee. The two sat in silence for a moment, Francis turning his choices over in his head. 

“They harmed me - they attacked us! They want to punish us for being in control,” Francis growled, fist clenching around the glass. Lukas' pale blue eyes stared pointedly at the glass mug, a faint creaking noise escaping the structure. France's cheeks turned the faintest pink, placing his hand flat on the table, fingers dancing over the long metal spoon resting on a small saucer nearby. 

"Who else have they harmed?" Lukas asked, voice unwavering. Francis' perfectly manicured eyebrows rose, propping his chin up with his hand. The silver cuff-links shaped like stars glittered at the wrists of the white suit he wore, fading into the immaculate room he occupied. The periwinkle shirt he wore underneath blended with the handkerchief peppered with white stars, the edges of the tie tickling his chin. The light colors did nothing to hide the darkness that circled France like sharks after prey. 

"They intend to harm all of us! They want to be in charge, they want to be in power. We have to defend ourselves," Francis insisted, leaning towards Lukas, the table creaking at the change in weight.

"Have we received any threats?" Lukas continued, tilting his head in question. He straightened the sleeves of his blue dress shirt, thin white tie still neatly held in place with a small pin of the flag of Norway. 

"You don't think the murder of my soulmate, by someone who shouldn’t have been able to act, is enough of a threat?" Francis demanded, voice starting to rise. His fists clenched, the metal of the spoon in his grasp crumpling, the barest trace of smoke rising from the metal. 

"Right now, this sounds like revenge. Centuries have passed with no further hostilities. There is no need for us to be the provocateurs," Lukas stated, taking a long draft of his coffee. His steady gaze met and held Francis' deep blue. “I see no reason to punish a collective for the actions of one.” 

“Matthew came to you didn’t he?” France sighed, dropping his forehead onto his palm with a quiet slap. Lukas nodded, baring his sharp teeth once more. The entire meeting had been futile. “Why did you come when you weren’t going to accept in the first place?”

“I wanted to see if you had any evidence. I’m not family - you can’t convince me with emotion alone,” Lukas explained, idly swirling his coffee in his cup. The rhythmic swirling of the coffee against the glass was almost hypnotic to watch. Up and down went the dark tide, forever waxing and waning, framing Lukas’ impassive face perfectly. France’s despairing figure was drowned over and over until the darkness swallowed him whole. 

  
  


Spain was waiting for him in the kitchen. The other country was rifling through his white, double-door fridge when Francis reentered. From what France could see, the ingredients lining the counter all the way to the sink were for the bastardized version of churros that Spain had developed just for Francis. The dessert had all the cinnamon flavor of Antonio’s favorite treat, but combined to form a crepe batter to appeal to his blonde friend. Francis couldn’t see what ingredient from the fridge Antony had in his hands. Frustrated by Norway’s uncooperative stance, he barked, “And what are you doing in my kitchen?”

Antony jumped, smacking his head on the top of the fridge with a faint clunk, hands automatically releasing their burden. To make his day that much aggravating, Francis was treated to the entire dozen of eggs falling to the floor, every single occupant shattering. Soon, the entirety of the white tile in front of his fridge was covered in yellow, sticky egg bits, pieces of shell sticking up like faintly buried landmines. France sighed, sinking his head down to the island in front of him as he groaned, “Antony, are there eggs on my floor?”

“Yes?” the other country squeaked back. France groaned even louder, rubbing his forehead against the cool marble counter, no doubt leaving streaks on it’s white and grey patterned surface. He paused in his despair for a moment, climbing onto the round, well-cushioned stool next to him. The wooden legs were painted white, the cushion on the top round, and dyed purple, with yellow in the center, like his flower: the  _ fleur-de-lys _ . The other stool next to him had white legs as well, but that cushion had a pale purple background with the white stylized version of the  _ fleur-de-lis _ embroidered across. 

“What have I done to deserve this?” Francis lamented, laying a cheek flat on the counter to stare over at Antonio, who was still frozen with his head against the top of the fridge. The other country swiveled to face him, eyes wide as they took in his rumpled appearance. The normally put-together man had clearly had a difficult time earlier. His hair was tangled and wild from running his hands through it too often. His fancy handkerchief had been untied to rest around his neck loosely, the abrupt slash across his neck still startling even to his best friend. Francis was paler than usual, the bags under eyes apparent now without the concealer. His cuff-links were missing, and his sleeves had been rolled up. 

“My friend, you are a mess,” Antonio said, hopping over the eggs in front of him to reach the paper towels that sat across from his slumped friend. He grabbed the roll, moved to the lilac cupboards, and pulled the trash can out from under the sink. He crouched in front of the smashed ingredients and started wiping them up. 

Eventually, the steady noise of ripping paper towels seemed to bring Francis out of his defeated position, the blonde sitting up straighter and half climbing on the counter to watch Spain. Seeing his friend, tanned from his country’s beaches and taller than ever never failed to make France happy. However, now that happiness was lessened. The refusal of his son, of Norway, an occasional ally, made him doubt that eve Spain, his closest friend, would support him. 

“Antonio?” France began, his voice surprisingly quiet for the normally dramatic and exuberant man. Spain paused, dropping the soggy paper towel that he held into the trash, raising his head to meet deep blue eyes. 

“ _ Si, amigo _ ?” Spain replied, offering a shy smile, flashing white teeth. 

“We need to eliminate our alters. They are such a threat. Are you willing to help me?” France asked, fists clenching where they were braced on the counter. He wasn’t sure what he would do if Spain refused. Maybe he was wrong, if even the closest of his friends wouldn’t agree with him. 

“Of course I will help you,  _ Francito _ . You have never started battles without good reason, and how could I not support you when I already failed you with Jeanne?” Antony demanded, scowling into the depths of the trash can. The pile of paper towels reached the middle of the container, and yet, there was still so much to clean up. 

“Thank you, Antony. You have always been my greatest ally and friend,” France sighed, relief once again driving him to lay his upper half on the counter, blue eyes half open to watch Spain continue to struggle on the floor; “I never thought there would come a day where I would see you defeated by eggs, my friend.”

“Careful!” Spain laughed, “I could be making you do this. Because I am such a good friend, I am cleaning this myself.”

“I am grateful for your mercy, Lord Antonio,” Francis drawled, waving a hand from his prone position. 

“As you should be,” Spain huffed, a grin creeping across his face. The content silence that followed was only broken by the faint shuffle of paper towel against tile, and the quiet thunk of soaked paper meeting the edge of a can. The easy-going country was wearing a light brown leather jacket, hemmed above the waist to mimic a matador’s cut, a green, soft cotton T-shirt bunched around a jean-clad waist. 

“Francis, how did your conversation with Norway go?” Antony asked. “Judging by your mood, it doesn’t seem like the outcome you wanted.” 

“He said no.”

“Why?” 

“Because he thinks I’m out for revenge. He doesn’t see the threat that they pose,” Francis grumbled, scowling at the chip in the counter that Spain’s bull, Tao, had made scratching his growing horns as an adolescent. Luckily, Antony had realized that Tao could, and would, wait outside where he could snack on France’s yard. Both the bull and France were happier with arrangement: the animal was fed, and Francis’ yard was mowed. 

“Surely not. They can see the declaration of intent, what they did to Jeanne… What they shouldn’t have been able to do… The was worrying. That they’d be willing to kill soulmates - to doom us, to doom you to centuries or millenniums of pain and suffering. I, too, am worried about them. I don’t see how they cannot act,” Antonio stated, a hand on his hip. The floor was finally clear, and the dark-haired man returned all the supplies to their proper places. 

“I want to talk to England. Arthur has to see that Oliver has gone too far. How can he defend him? He has to be able to see that the Twos resent us. He would know. Oliver hasn’t been to see him since he murdered her. They used to be so close,” France mused. He didn’t really want to go see Arthur. They may have tried to raise two children together, and they could get along, but Arthur had never quite forgiven Francis for how his relationship with the two kids had soured. Hopefully Mattou hadn’t talked to the Brit yet - France had no desire to be stabbed. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**OMAKE**

[When France went to go visit Canada]

The bear ignored him. It seemed to be a little smaller than the last time he had prodded at it, the ear only taking up half of his sight, rather than three quarters. Perhaps the bear was starting to feel merciful? Then Kuma shifted, and all thoughts of the bear’s potential mercy left his mind. 

“Kuma? Kuma? Please don’t step on that,” Francis begged, one bowl-sized paw treading on the edge of his thigh, claws threateningly close to the zipper of his black Versace jeans. His voice was muffled, a living acoustic panel blocking all of the sound-waves. His mouth was right next to the bear’s ear, so he could only pray that the  _ le baisser _ took pity on him. He didn’t hold much hope. 

The polar bear snorted, turning to look at France directly in the eyes, black, resentful depths meeting terrified blue. It took a deliberate step forward, making Francis cry out as the creature’s paw met the sensitive spot. The bear stood for a good ten seconds, each one feeling like a lifetime, an eternity of suffering, before it turned and left, jumping off the couch. 

France sobbed, curling into an aching ball of pain on the soft couch. At least the event hadn’t happened on the hardwood floor. Tears ran down high cheeks onto the soft leather, the blonde too absorbed in his own pain to register the approaching footsteps. 

“Good job, Kuma. I knew I taught you that for a reason,” a deep voice growled, making Francis shriek as he jumped, wincing at the movement. He cautiously turned his head to see the tall form of Matticka in the doorway, patting the now-bear cub on the head as it squirmed into his arms. 

“Matticka… why?” France gasped, betrayed by his own flesh and blood. 

“You made Matthew cry,” Matt replied, turning and leaving, Kuma peering back over his shoulder, making Francis shudder. 

  
  


[When Norway left]

Norway paused in the entryway, looking at the shoe cupboard to the left of the door, the antique masterfully restored to pristine condition. He had left Francis slumped over the coffee table, blonde hair a puddle of gold against the caramel surface. The man didn’t seem to be in any hurry to move. 

The cupboard door opened without a sound, the ancient hinges clearly well oiled. Inside were pair upon pair of expensive, designer shoes. Each was protected in a zip-up, fabric case. Some had been imported from halfway around the world, each popular designer of the current era represented in this massive collection. Norway smirked, fangs making another appearance. 

After thirty minutes, fifty trips from the cupboard to the front lawn, Lukas had finally laid out every single pair of shoes France kept at this house. He double checked his phone. The weather channel promised a thunderstorm tonight. 


	3. Arthur (Scorched Earth)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> France has hope yet that he will find support for his endeavor.

Francis should have known that this was where England would receive him. The sprawling garden before them was the place that Arthur felt the safest. Of course he would want to meet here, with the white, wrought-iron table and chairs sheltered by a weeping willow, one that provided a living curtain around the tiled spot in the center. The path through the garden was one lined by gravel, large tiles of dark slate placed overtop with gaps of around an inch in between. France had seen the construction of this garden, had watched its first few iterations. Now, he was faced with the changes that he had missed.  
The edges of the path that had once been lined with blue orchids, were now lined with thick hedges that prevented him from straying. Behind that safety were orderly rows of blue and purple orchids further hemmed in by a moat about two feet across. The left bank had a stretching row of hydrangeas in front of the stone wall that protected the garden. The path branched to the right, to the other side of the moat. There, small plots of pink and yellow lilies surrounded a white, wrought-iron bench with a small side table. A glass framed, jute-wrapped lantern sat on the table, waiting to be lit when darkness fell.  
A small, stone-lined pond rested in front of a rhododendron bush, and on the other side were neat, geometric designs of baby’s breath and bluebells. These plots lead to the back wall of the garden, lined with trellises and vines behind a white swinging bench, painted with blue designs like the delicate china teapots that Arthur was so fond of. In the dead center of this garden was the willow tree that sheltered their meeting area, surrounded by the moat with a small bridge that allowed them to cross.  
“You came,” Arthur said, placing his teacup back in its saucer with a gentle clink. The teapot in front of them sat on its trivet, the white porcelain covered in royal blue swirls and curves that swept over its surface to meet at the handle, dying it a solid blue. The steam that rose from the spout of the teapot swirled around their heads before rising to vanish in the green leaves above him. “I wasn’t sure if you would change your mind at the last minute again.”  
“Arthur you are far too cruel,” Francis whined, leaning back in faux-offense. The man had obviously decided to be more subdued for his meeting with his ex-lover, to appeal to Arthur's less extravagant nature. He wore a grey bespoke suit (Versace? They did seem to be France's favorite designer), and a thin, lilac tie that was clipped to his crisp, white shirt by a sword-shaped tie pin. His dress shoes remained like loafers, though the black leather did seem to be more smudged than the man normally liked, and the socks that peeked out from the hem of his trousers seemed to be patterned like the French flag. “I haven’t been avoiding you, I promise.”  
“Love, you have not talked to me since you wanted me to apologize to Matthew for you when you missed his birthday,” England murmured, fingers caressing the handle of the teacup. Francis paused, buttoning his suit jacket back up as he thought back to his last conversation with Arthur. Had it really been that long ago? He wracked his brain, but couldn’t remember anything more recent than that.  
“Time passes so easily for us, Artur. That feels almost like yesterday,” France rebutted, chuckling as he took a long draft of his tea. He had forgotten how long Arthur would hold onto his grudges, but he was hoping that he’d be able to persuade him to his side. He withheld his grimace at the taste of chai. Arthur knew the cinnamon flavor was his most hated.  
“Why did you want to meet today, Francis?” Arthur sighed, crossing his forearms over each other on the table and leaning forwards. His leather jacket creaked at his movements, union jack bandana loose enough to show his clavicles and the black chain that dangled down his chest, disappearing into his white shirt. Francis and Arthur generally avoided each other, France unwilling to face Arthur’s disappointment, and Arthur unable to hold back his resentment on behalf of Matthew.  
“I’ve come to ask for your help. You’re one of the few I have left to rely on,” Francis said, placing his teacup down gratefully and straightening up, shoulders squaring to present a confidant front. A front more like the country he used to be - before his Jeanne was murdered. Just the thought of her brilliant hair, turned to ash, made him clench his fists under the table. “It was your alter that murdered my beloved. You must take responsibility for his actions.”  
“How would you have me do that?” Arthur asked, voice wavering. He stared down into his tea, twitching as a thin leaf from the tree above them drifted into his cup. It floated for a few seconds like a boat, before sinking to the bottom. The blonde refused to raise his head, Francis instead studying the part in his hair, splotches of pink showing amongst the roots. The thought of Arthur meeting so recently with Oliver drove the country to distraction.  
“Oliver must pay, and with him the other alters that are plotting against us,” France growled, wishing, for the first time in almost a century, that he had a cigarette. Arthur always drove him to emotional highs and lows that he had never reached in the company of others. Why the Brit could have such an effect on him, he despaired of ever knowing, but he often resented it. Now, was one such time. “If you ever cared for me, you would help me. My soulmate is dead because of him, Artur. Il l'a tuée!”  
Arthur couldn’t seem to muster a reply. He was staring at his teacup still, both hands clutching it, unable to tear his eyes away from the ship at the bottom of the ocean. The smell of cinnamon hung in the air like gunpowder. France could never abide the smell, whether it came with jam tarts or with tea, both things reminding him of his failed and wasted time with Arthur.  
“I know you could never like Jeanne, I know that you could never accept her. But you would not let her murderer walk free, would you?” Francis demanded, leaning further towards England, coming close to knocking over the teapot. France wouldn’t mourn the loss of the chai tea, but he knew that if he knocked it over, Arthur would be offended. Francis didn’t need to make the other country even more resentful of him.  
“But how could I turn against my own brother?” Arthur returned, raising his head. His green eyes shimmered with tears as he met France’s ruthlessly inquisitive gaze. The other country tried to stop himself from softening at the sight - England’s tears made him sad even after their split, and all the fighting that ensued.  
“How could you not reject a murderer, you mean?” France snapped, his anger getting the best of him, the porcelain cup in his hand shattering, throwing boiling liquid all over the table. The two were frozen for just a moment, steam curling off of Francis’ hand, curled in a ‘c’ where it had been wrapped around his cup. Drips of superheated liquid fell through the decorative, iron table to burn France’s pants, before turning to steam on contact with his skin. Sizzling, not unlike that of butter in a hot pan, filled those frozen seconds.  
“Francis!” England exclaimed, hurrying over with a cloth napkin he pulled from the serving cart next to him, dabbing at the liquid that collected on his knees and arms. As he knelt to inspect the other’s shoes, left shoulder flush to Francis’ legs, Arthur’s arm was grabbed by an unnaturally warm hand. He looked up to lock gazes with the blue eyes of France, now positioned above him.  
“Answer me, Arthur,” France began; “Who’s side are you on? Mine? Or the murderer's?” The longer England took to reply, the hotter Francis’ hand became. Arthur, hunched in an uncomfortable pose, arm held above his head by France’s tight grip, squirmed to free himself. Instead, Francis’ grip only grew stronger and ever-hotter. England was afraid that if the temperature raised much more he would be left with a rather unmistakable burn.  
“Francis, you’re hurting me,” Arthur replied, trying to sound stern, his voice instead on the edge of a whisper. He disliked the feeling that France was inspiring in him, one of smallness, insignificance. One of implied violence if he disagreed. He no longer wanted to talk to France, of that he was sure.  
“Like you’ve let your frère hurt me? Like I’ve been hurting since Jeanne?” Francis demanded, yanking Arthur closer so that his back was pressed against France’s knees, the country leaning to whisper in his ear; “Are you choosing justice? Or anarchy?”  
Arthur couldn’t answer, curled into himself, held against Francis’ legs, arm pulled behind him to trap him there. He didn’t want to tell France what the other already knew, what the other suspected. He knew how France reacted to bad news, the fire that raged within him waiting to be released. He didn’t want to get burned. Francis released a groan of frustration, before his grip tightened, Arthur’s bone creaking, fire burning to unbearable levels.  
With a cry, Arthur fought free of Francis’ grip, shrieking as fingerprints etched themselves into his skin. Furrows were burnt into his arm, centimeters of flesh melted like wax into a perfect indent of his hand, right down to the fingerprint. In his haste to get away, Arthur ran headfirst into the table, the metal clanging, teapot shattering to spill its hot water down his back and across the slate circle below them. Huddled against the exposed feet and legs of the table, Arthur stared up at France, cradling his arm to his chest. The other country seemed to be frozen, his gaze fixed on the injury that England hid from him, the blackened edges of his shirt sleeve a seemingly endless void France couldn’t tear his eyes from.  
“Artur…” Francis tried, his voice a whisper, sentence trailing off before it had truly begun. The sound broke Arthur out of his frozen state, eyes hardening as he glared up at France. He took a deep breath, tears burning at the corners of his emerald eyes. He gathered himself together, using the upright legs of the table to support him as he wavered to his feet.  
“Get out,” England growled, eyebrows creeping together, and eyes beginning to glow with a bright green light.  
“Artur, I didn’t mean to -”  
“GET OUT!” Arthur yelled, gesturing towards the wide double doors that Francis had entered the garden through. As France continued to hesitate, the plants around them began to rustle in warning, vines starting to creep from the hedges and the walls, waving threateningly as they moved closer.  
“I-I am sorry, Art-”  
“OUT!” At the last warning, Arthur’s eyes were completely swallowed by the green light, as the willow behind him leant back, it’s wall of branches rising like the tide before swarming Francis, wrapping around him, trapping him in their harsh embrace. He was lifted and thrown, pricked by unnatural, dark thorns that had sprung up on the branches, blood dripping from numerous punctures. Flying through the air, France could see that the flowers and hedges were slowly rising to block the paths, more sweeping to follow and block the path behind him. He landed harshly and rolled down the stone stairs in front of it. With the wind knocked out of him, Francis could barely gather the strength to turn his head towards the doors that were slammed shut behind him, undoubtedly bound tightly closed with the vines that thrived on Arthur’s wall.  
The scent of burnt flesh hung in his nostrils, screams ringing in his ears from a different voice.

OMAKE  
“Time passes so easily for us, Artur. That feels almost like yesterday,” France rebutted, chuckling as he took a long draft of his tea. He had forgotten how long Arthur would hold onto his grudges, but he was hoping that he’d be able to persuade him to his side. He withheld his grimace at the taste of chai. Arthur knew the cinnamon flavor was his most hated.  
“Yes, I suppose that is true,” Arthur acknowledged with a nod, waving his hand as thought to dismiss the thought, his gesture knocking his tea over. The dark liquid splashed over his lap, the cool liquid made him gasp. He turned to the cart beside him, freeing Francis from his piercing emerald gaze.  
As soon as that gaze left him, Francis turned and began dumping his cup out on the scant exposed inches of grass behind him. In a few seconds, he had dumped the contents of his cup away. Perhaps the plants would enjoy it. By the time Arthur had cleaned up the mess, Francis was smiling peacefully into his empty teacup.  
“Oh? You liked the tea that much?” Arthur smiled, a sweet expression that hid an edge of steel. France gulped, offering a strained grin in return.  
"You know I can never resist your treats," Francis replied, the statement fighting its way past gritted teeth as Arthur refilled his cup.  
Drat.


	4. Alfred (Interests Align)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desperate, Francis turns to the child he has a troubled past with: America. Can he and Alfred set aside their mutual resentment for the greater good? Or will they split for good?

America was always hard to reach. France never quite knew where he’d be, or where he’d want to meet. This time, America decided they would meet in a local coffee shop that he owned. It was a neat little place in Washington D.C., blocks away from the Washington Monument, tucked into a narrow street away from the main thoroughfare. The elegant, stone buildings that trailed down the cobblestone street were broken up by buttresses, metal fencing, balconies, and brightly colored canopies that advertised their respective establishments. Only the locals would come to dine here, rather than the flashy chain restaurants. 

Alfred's establishment was on the right, towards the middle of the street. A cheerful blue mailbox was on the sidewalk in front of the glass door, the words ‘Homeward Bound’ emblazoned on the front in curving, black letters. Below, attached with a suction cup hook, hung a simple ‘closed’ sign, reserving the restaurant for Francis and Alfred’s meeting. France stepped up to the door, long fingers caressing the brass handle that curved to meet him. He pulled it open, stepping into the blast of pleasantly-cool air that greeted him. The coffee shop was a cozy environment, one styled in a monochrome of blue, from the walls to the counter. The walls were a soft shade of blue, one that you could see when the sun rose. This was accented with a thick, pastel blue stripe across the middle of the wall, directly behind the dark, deep blue counter topped with a simple, white faux-marble top. The shining silver appliances lined the end of the counter, espresso machines, milk frothers, coffee drips, and french presses waiting to be used. The cash register at the head of the counter was the newest version: an iPad with a card reader. 

Behind that counter stood Alfred, grinning as Francis entered. The long-haired blonde took in the square wooden tables with a smooth finish. The chairs were also wooden, with a rounded back and cushions the same deep shade as the counter. Francis smiled in greeting, moving towards Alfred at the cash register, “ _ Mon ami _ !” 

“Francis,” Alfred grinned in reply, “Can I offer you a coffee?” The Frenchman approached the counter, staring up at the cheerful, simple menu board on the wall. The dark blue, almost black boards were covered in white, curving writing: 

**Hot Coffee:**

Latte

Cappuccino

Macchiato

Americano

| 

**Flavor:**

Chocolate

Vanilla

Caramel

Raspberry

| 

**Iced Coffee:**

Cold Brew

Nitro

Iced Espresso

Frappuccino

| 

**Other:**

Tea

Lemonade

Iced Tea  
  
---|---|---|---  
  
France quirked a brow as he approached the counter, smiling as he placed his hands on the smooth surface, looking at the old style pastry display next to the modern cash register. It wasn’t full, only holding a few croissants, danishes, and homemade biscotti. He hummed, tapping the counter as he debated his options. Coffee and biscotti was the classic he always got in coffee shops, but he could branch out and get a cappuccino with raspberry flavor.

“I’ll try a cappuccino with cream, sugar, and raspberry. Along with a croissant,” Francis smiled. This whole meeting was a risk; what was one more? Alfred grinned in return, pulling a large, deep blue mug patterned with ocean waves from under the counter. The machines began to bubble, coffee percolating, while the raspberry flavoring warmed. Soon, the bitter scent of coffee spread through the shop, and a large, ceramic mug slid across the counter to France’s welcoming hands. 

He wrapped his fingers around the mug, wincing as the heat made itself known on his fingertips. Instead, he picked it up by the over-large handle, an inch of empty space between his pinky and the lower edge of the mug. A croissant was placed on a confetti patterned napkin in front of him, and he picked it up in his other hand. Alfred reached under the counter, grabbing his own green and yellow travel mug, the faintest edge of a tractor visible from Francis’ angle. 

“Let’s head upstairs,” Alfred said with a nod of his head, turning towards the iron and wood spiral staircase. The fluffy-headed blonde led the way up, combat boots clomping and leather aviator jacket glinting under the lights. Francis followed him, eyes widening at the second story, a sprawling loft filled with navy blue, overstuffed couches and velvet chairs, low coffee tables with light blue poufs scattered throughout. Potted plants - fiddle leaf trees, weeping fig, bird of paradise - dotted the corners, hiding outlets or power strips that powered the overhead pendant lights and cozy tabletop lanterns. The most recent releases of magazines were strewn over the coffee tables and side tables, woven coasters and small candles alongside them. 

Alfred moved to the corner farthest from the stars, one that looked over the side street with large bay windows, the sun bathing it in a golden glow. America sank into the deep blue, velvet armchair, the window at his back, and left Francis to choose between a pouf on the floor or the loveseat adjacent to him. Francis sank into the overstuffed cushions with a sigh, placing his pastry on the wooden accent table next to him. Alfred took a long swig from his yellow mug, balancing it on the arm of his chair carelessly. 

“I feel like I’m your last resort, dear  _ papa _ ,” Alfred murmured, a smirk playing across his face. Francis glared in return, blowing on his coffee. Alfred continued, a faint whine edging his tone; “Do you only love me when I’m useful?”

“We both know you don’t view me as a father, Alfie,” Francis replied, tugging on the wheat-shaped antenna that Alfred’s hair insisted on forming. The other grinned in agreement, leaning closer to the Frenchman. 

“You’re just the ex of the man I love,” Alfred said, leaning on an elbow as he sprawled back in his chair, jeaned legs extending to put those brown, leather combat boots up on the coffee table. Francis sighed, twirling his shoulder-length locks around his finger. He stuck out like a sore thumb on the dark couch, his pale pink and white pinstriped suit almost blinding in the shadowed room. Alfred groaned as a pop echoed from his back: “Arthur was always too good for you.”

“As much as I’ve valued your opinion on my life, Alfie, I don’t really care,” Francis growled back, his hand tightening on the mug with the threatening creak of ceramic. He found the fire under his skin harder to control, lately. “I need to know whether you’ll help me exile our Alters for good or not.”

“Please, like Alejandro has never been anything but a thorn in my side,  _ papa _ . He constantly stirs up discontentment within our borders. He needs to be locked up with the rest,” Alfred growled, shoulders tightening, the fluff of his hood almost touching his pale ears. Francis smiled in relief, taking a sip from his mug.

“Antony has agreed to help as well. He’s reaching out to more of us,” France stated. Alfred hummed in acknowledgement, nodding as he sipped more of his coffee. He breathed in the steam billowing from the opening, drawing a deep breath in before letting it go. He sat up, leaning forward towards Francis, elbows resting on jean-clad knees. 

“I will help you. But I have one condition,” Alfred said, meeting Francis’ gaze with intense blue eyes, eyes resembling a solid wall. Francis nodded, placing his own mug on the side table to give Alfred his full attention. 

“I’ll take over the operation. None of you have fought as much and as successfully as I have,” Alfred stated, coolly meeting Francis’s gaze. France paused for a moment. Could he really leave everything to America? He and his son had never truly gotten along, Alfred too resentful of Francis’ relationship with Arthur. And Francis couldn’t help but blame Canada and America for his failings with Arthur. Judging by his most recent interaction with England, however, that door was closed to him forever now. Why not allow those old grudges to pass?

“That works for me. Anything else?” Francis asked with an indulgent chuckle. 

“Actually, yes,” America returned, shifting to lean back in his seat, the sun behind him setting his hair ablaze. Francis cocked his head, a faint crease forming between his eyebrows: “What is it, then?”

“Leave Arthur to me,” Alfred smirked, face bathed in shadow, white teeth glimmering out from the darkness. It brought to mind a looming maw, ready to feast on unsuspecting prey. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


OMAKE:

[...] Alfred took a long swig from his yellow mug, balancing it on the arm of his chair carelessly. 

“I feel like I’m your last resort, dear  _ papa _ ,” Alfred murmured, a smirk playing across his face. Francis glared in return, blowing on his coffee. Alfred continued, a faint whine edging his tone; “Do you only love me when I’m useful?”

“We both know you don’t view me as a father, Alfie,” Francis replied, tugging on the wheat-shaped antenna that Alfred’s hair insisted on forming. The other grinned in agreement, leaning closer to the Frenchman. A careless nudge with his elbow knocked the tumbler off the chair and onto the floor with a dull ‘clunk’, coffee spreading across the floor in a dark pool. 

“Shit!” Alfred yelped, jumping up and pulling off the top of the stool next to him, reaching inside for the paper towels within. He spread them over the floor, frantically soaking up the liquid. France calmly turned sideways on the couch above him, laying his long legs across the plush couch. 

“Still as clumsy as ever, eh Alfie?”


End file.
